Pieces of a Broken Puzzle
by NotMarge
Summary: Bucky Barnes is trying to rebuild something resembling a life. He writes everything down he can remember about himself. It isn't much. It isn't enough. But it's all he has.
1. Pieces of a Broken Puzzle

I do not own Captain America anything.

Or a Bucky. It's probably for the best.

Pieces of a Broken Puzzle

* * *

He wrote down everything.

Every snippet, every whiff, every breath of a memory.

Anything. Everything.

No matter how insignificant seeming, he wrote it down.

Filed it away.

Trying desperately to recover what he had lost.

His mind. His memories.

His self.

 _Who am I?_

He carried them with him.

Pored over them.

The little notebooks.

He filled every page.

With writings.

Drawings.

With himself.

When one was filled to completion, not an inch more space, he retrieved the backpack.

And added it to the stack.

Hid it away again in a safe place.

And obtained another notebook.

 _Who am I?_

They were random. Scattered.

Broken.

His memories. His dreams.

His life.

Like him.

But he saved them anyway.

Because they were all he had.

* * *

 _When I was a kid, I stole a Baby Ruth from the newspaper stand._

 _I hid in an alley and ate it._

 _Then I started crying and told my mom._

 _She wiped the tears and chocolate off my face with her apron._

 _And we walked to the newspaper man and she gave me the nickel to pay him back and apologize._

 _We went home and she made me promise never to steal again._

 _I never did._

* * *

Snickers.

Twix.

Three Musketeers.

Baby Ruth.

Man cannot live on candy alone.

And neither could Bucky Barnes back in the day.

But they were awfully good.

Then he went off to war, was captured, tortured, experimented on, and eventually rescued.

Followed the little guy once again into service. This time as part of the Howling Commandos.

Fell away into ice and snow.

And at the merciless hands of Hydra, became the Winter Soldier.

For fifty long years.

Reunited with his friend.

Nearly killed him.

Broke free.

Saved his life.

And ran away.

And now, trying to rebuild himself, he lived as quietly as he could.

Moving from country to country.

City to city.

Hiding.

Surviving.

Trying to piece his shattered psyche back together.

In Bucharest, he saw them.

Sitting quietly on a shelf in a shop.

Thought he remembered.

And spent precious bani he didn't need to on them.

Candy bars.

He didn't eat them all the time, he didn't crave them.

But the first time James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes unwrapped a Baby Ruth.

Bit into the peanuty, nougaty, caramely confection, he was so overwhelmed with nostalgia and lost hope he almost cried.

Because it was the first time he thought he might truly remember what it felt like to be human again.

And him.

* * *

 **Tumblr via Pinterest called to my attention that among other important bits of things that will show up here, there are candy bars in Bucky's Bucharest hideout.**

 **And I freaked.**

 **So here I am. Just writing away tho I am sure I am not the first.**

 **Wanna read?**

 **Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.**


	2. Popcorn on His Shoes

I do not own Captain America anything.

Or a Bucky. It's probably for the best.

Pieces of a Broken Puzzle

Popcorn on His Shoes

* * *

Walking home from the market one afternoon, he saw them.

Two little girls playing on a grassy knoll while their mothers chatted nearby.

Twirling, twirling, twirling.

'Round and 'round and 'round in the warm, spring sun.

The dancing of freedom and innocence and youth.

Blond and brunette braids flying out behind them.

Giggling.

A gentle smile almost crossed his grim face.

Almost.

Then one of the girls, the dark haired one, tripped over her own feet, fell to the ground.

His protective instincts immediately pulled him to help her, check her knees for scrapes.

Even as he kept his pace and direction undeterred toward home.

Her friend stopped spinning and, somewhat unsteadily, knelt next to the downed girl.

The scene expanded before him, tunnel visioning into his brain.

He stopped.

Just as it hit him.

He saw it.

Heard it.

The sounds of the carnival. Tinny music. People screaming in excitement, laughing.

Running past, pulling each other by the hands.

And . . .

" Hey, whoa . . ."

. . . the unpleasant sound of someone upchucking near his feet.

"Urgh . . ."

The ill aroma of hot buttery popcorn mixed with vomit.

"Okay, take a deep breath. Deep breath, pal."

Reaching down to offer a hand.

"I know. Just give me a minute, Buck."

Only to have it swiped away by a thinner, more frail, trembling one.

"Did anybody see?"

Quite a few, actually. Staring at the pitiful heap on the ground trying to pull himself together.

"Ehh, what do they matter? Can you get up?"

* * *

 _Steve and I went to Coney Island. We met some girls and bought them cotton candy and popcorn._

 _I kissed one of them on the ferris wheel. She had freckles._

 _We rode the Cyclone._

 _Steve got sick and threw up on my shoes._

 _The girls ran off then but I didn't care because they wore too much perfume anyway._

* * *

The little girl was okay.

She got up.

Shook her head, tettered a little.

And the two of them ran off again to play.

The Winter Soldier resumed his walk.

And went home alone.

* * *

 **Most grateful thanks to ThatGypsyWriter, you wonderful girl, you! :D**


	3. Like Me

I do not own Captain America anything.

Or a Bucky. It's probably for the best.

Pieces of a Broken Puzzle

Like Me

* * *

He didn't notice at first. Ignored the sound.

None of his business anyway.

But eventually he went to check.

And saw it.

The dog.

Rummaging through the garbage cans outside his ground floor dwelling in Bratslavia.

He started to yell at it, scare it away.

And stopped.

The brown and white stray was emaciated.

Ragged flaps of ears.

Scarred muzzle.

And missing a front leg.

And Bucky Barnes swallowed a sudden lump in his throat.

The dog hunched. And whimpered fearfully as it cowered before the tall, imposing human.

Who stared fixedly at it for a long set of seconds.

And turned.

Back into his one room apartment.

Clattered around for a curious minute.

Only to return with a small bowl of goulash.

He set it down just outside his doorway.

So as not frighten the jittery canine.

And backed away.

Set himself down in a rickety wooden chair in his kitchen.

Elbows on knees, hands loosely clasped.

And waited.

Watched.

It took a while.

The dog had learned well from previous experience, it seemed.

But eventually its bony frame threw an uneven shadow on the unvarnished wood floor.

As it licked the bowl clean, tail wagging.

And then ran away down the cobblestone path.

Bucky Barnes watched it go.

* * *

Over the next several days, he found himself reserving the last bits of his meals for his new acquintance.

Who showed up. Fearfully. Hopefully.

The dog, no more than a terrier, gradually tolerated his presence more and more.

Allowing him closer, an inch at a time.

Until one day, he reached out a peaceful hand.

Which was dutifully sniffed.

Before being forgotten in favor its meager feast of vendor procured lokse.

And the tail, already happily wagging with delight, picked up the pace further when The Winter Soldier's metal hand gently stroked his head.

Meal consumed nearly whole, the dog perked up his head.

Sniffed the gloved hand.

And experimentally licked it.

The taciturn owner of said hand smiled then.

Until the dog's rough tongue found an errant bit of exposed metal arm.

And Bucky Barnes drew back a little, swiping off-handedly at the doggy saliva.

"Ah, you're gonna rust it."

The dog sneezed and shook its head, quite unconcerned.

And ran off down the street.

* * *

 _My older sister brought home a stray dog that followed her home._

 _My father told her we couldn't afford to keep it._

 _He put it in the truck and drove it out to the country._

 _My sister cried for two days._

 _I drew a picture of it to make her happy again._

 _She pinned it to the wall._

 _She named him Fred and he lived on our wall._

* * *

One day, the dog did not come to eat.

At the end of the evening, he retrieved the unlicked bowl from the doorstoop.

Brow furrowed, mouth drawn down in a frown.

The dog did not show up the next day.

Or the next.

Or the next.

He found himself looking for it here and there as he went about his quiet existence.

Eventually relinquishing hope.

And stoically moving on.

Because sooner or later, everything goes away.

* * *

 **Tell me you can't see Bucky feeding and petting this scrawny stray dog. Come on, tell me. ;)**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318, DinahRay, and cairstonia7 for your gracious reviews.**

 **Thanks also to jacmc1228 for adding your support as well.**


	4. Ping

I do not own Captain America anything.

Or a Bucky. It's probably for the best.

Pieces of a Broken Puzzle

Ping

* * *

He only ever heard it in the shower.

 _Ping._

Never outside.

 _Ping_.

No, he kept it covered up when he went outside.

 _Ping_.

Wouldn't do to have anyone see it.

 _Ping._

And grow suspicious of who or what he might be.

 _Ping_.

Water droplets bounced off his arm with metallic _pings._

The water was hot for now and soothing, a thin erratic stream that might burst cold or scalding without warning if he stayed too long.

He suds up quickly, taking no time in leisure. Rinsed, sluishing away the sweat and grime covering his body.

Trying not to get lost in his own scattered mind.

He used to worry that the metal arm would rust. Leftover soap or dirt set up an irritation or infection of some sort where machine met man.

But so far the appendage seemed impervious to any sort of decay.

He had to give Zola that at least.

The mad scientist had built his monster to last.

He lathered up his hair and rinsed.

Thinking for the hundredth time of that clean shaven, closed cropped guy in the pictures of the Captain America exhibit he had stared in bewilderment at.

 _I really should get a haircut._

 _Because that's me._

But not anymore.

Not now.

Not James Buchanan Barnes.

Not exactly.

Not the Winter Soldier either.

Not anybody of definition.

After two years, he still didn't know what he was.

But he was trying.

And he did know who he wasn't.

That was something at least.

The water shocked freezing cold for a second, jolting him out of his reverie.

He jerked from his slumped stance leaning his weary head against his upraised forearms on the wet tiled wall.

 _Damn_.

Lost again.

He rinsed a final time, then shut off the water and stepped away from the shower area of the washroom.

Listening to the water drain away as he reached for the well worn towel on the bar.

Dried himself.

And wiped the steam from the streaked mirror.

Staring at the ragged face that stared back.

Dark, damp hair. Scruffy face.

Haunted eyes.

He didn't know who he was.

Not exactly.

Not by a long shot.

But he did know one thing.

And he repeated it to himself over and over again whenever he needed it, whenever he thought it would help.

And of course, he wrote it down.

* * *

 _My name is James Buchanan Barnes._

 _I prefer to be called Bucky._

 _I was a sargent in the United States Army._

 _I was caught and tortured and experimented on by a mad scientist named Zola._

 _He worked for HYDRA._

 _My friend Steve Rogers rescued me._

 _He wasn't the little guy anymore._

 _I fought beside him until I fell from a train._

 _Zola caught me again._

 _And this time I didn't escape._

 _They experimented on my body, broke my mind._

 _And turned me into a killing machine._

 _The Winter Soldier._

 _Steve stopped me._

 _I nearly killed him._

 _And now I'm free._

* * *

 _And I'm nobody's puppet. Not anymore._

* * *

 **Okay, this chapter is not about Bucky in the shower .**

 **Okay, this chapter is mostly not about Bucky in the shower.**

 **Shut up. ;)**

 **For an excellent Bucky turning Winter Soldier turning Bucky check out 'Worth All of This' by ff author brynerose. Dark and brooding and heartbreaking and thoughtfully written. Simply an amazing story. Rated M for its dark themes but no slash (hallelujah) or anything of the sort involved.**

 **Bucky repeating something of a mantra to himself is taken from her story, though I don't think verbatim.**

 **Seriously, check it out her story!**

 **Okay, thanks to brigid1318, DinahRay, and brynerose for kindly reviewing.**


	5. Just Words

I do not own Captain America anything.

Or a Bucky. It's probably for the best.

Pieces of a Broken Puzzle

Just Words

* * *

They'd didn't work in normal conversation.

Or in every language.

He didn't know why.

But he did recognize them nevertheless.

Every time.

In every language he knew.

And they always, if only for a second, set his heart jittering anxiously in his chest.

Breath catching in his throat.

Even after he realized they couldn't trigger him as they were.

Most of them were common words he heard anytime he was in public.

It was one reason he sometimes had trouble talking to people, being around others.

Especially at first.

He didn't want to lose control.

He didn't want to hurt anybody.

He didn't even want to hear those words at all.

But they were there.

And he would hear them, be wary of them.

Until the day he died.

"Longing to see Venice one day . . ."

" . . . with a rusted out motor, so he's going to restore it."

". . . seventeen students in his primary class . . ."

". . . view the lovely rose daybreak with a hot cup of tea."

". . . told him the furnace needs replacing before next winter."

". . . nine years old in September."

". . . benign tumor so they won't operate."

". . . homecoming dance. Do you have those here?"

"One of her twitter followers said . . ."

". . . said her granddad lost it in a Freight Car card game in the twenties . . ."

". . . soldier when he grows up . . ."

"I said I'm not going to comply with that 'cause it's a stupid rule . . ."

For a while, he even tried to avoid saying them himself.

'One' was particularly difficult.

As was 'nine'.

'Good morning' was nearly impossible if he wanted to be rude, especially to older folks.

Eventually he gave up, forcing himself to say them even when they left the metallic ting of guilty blood in his mouth.

And his head aching with dull discomfort.

* * *

 _I used to enjoy talking to people, especially pretty girls._

 _They would smile and I would smile and I would feel connected with the world._

 _Like I had a place in it. Like I fit somewhere._

 _Things are different now._

 _I'm not like that anymore._

 _I get nervous when people look at me now, when I have to look them in the eye._

 _I feel like they can see the monster inside me._

* * *

 **Suffice it to say, this is earlier in Bucky's recovery. Because we see him easily talking to the fruit vendor about the plums.**

 **But did you see how anxious he was with Steve? I thought he was going to implode.**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318, brynerose, DinahRay, cairistiona, and CloudSplashSummer for reviewing!**


	6. Modes of Transportation

I do not own Captain America anything.

Or a Bucky. It's probably for the best.

Pieces of a Broken Puzzle

Modes of Transportation

* * *

Enclosed spaces made him anxious.

Like trains.

Made him feel trapped, caught.

Made him worry for the people trapped and caught with him.

What if something jolted him, triggered him?

What if something happened and he snapped and lost control?

He could hurt a civilian, an innocent.

It was why he tried to walk everywhere, rain or shine.

Boiling or freezing.

But still, he couldn't walk everywhere.

Not all the time.

And not forever.

So sometimes he had to take the train from city to city.

Town to town.

And when he did, he worried.

Withdrew.

Stayed to himself.

Concentrated on his feet.

On his hands.

On his . . .

"I'm cold, Steve."

"Yeah, your butt's on ice, Buck."

"Hotdogs were good though."

"Mmm, relish."

" _Jeez_ , it's cold."

"Yeah."

"Wanna snuggle?"

"Hell no."

"Yeah, me neither. Dot would've snuggled with me."

"Maybe. If you could've won that stuffed bear for her."

"Golddigger."

"Ha. Yeah."

"Damn, it's _cold_. How many miles back again?"

"Uh, thirty something?"

"How far have we come?"

"I don't know. Ten?"

"Damn."

"Yeah."

"Good day though."

"The best, Buck."

. . . random floating memories.

* * *

 _Steve and I called in sick to work one day. We took a train to Rockaway Beach in Queens._

 _I blew three bucks trying to throw a ring to win a teddybear for a girl._

 _That's about fifty dollars in American money today._

 _I was really stupid._

 _But she was really pretty; I liked her red hair._

 _Once we were broke, I convinced a driver to let us hitch a ride back in his freezer truck._

 _My toes were numb by the time we got home to Brooklyn._

 _It was a good day._

* * *

 **Lifted straight out of Civil War, I know. Still suitably fun and cupcakey.**

 **And no, not any Stucky-ness to it there in that 'snuggle' bit. Just a goofball moment.**

 **Thanks to caristonia7, brigid1318, DinahRay, and brynerose for the great reviews!**


	7. Alleys and Sidestreets

I do not own Captain America anything.

Or a Bucky. It's probably for the best.

Pieces of a Broken Puzzle

Alleys and Sidestreets

* * *

He still did it.

Every time.

He guessed it could be called a compulsion.

In the early days of his recovery, he couldn't quite remember why.

Except that it was really important.

Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, Bucky Barnes always impulsively glanced down alleys.

Sidestreets.

Empty lots as he passed them.

Head down, eyes resolutely trained on the pavement before his feet.

Closed off, hunched against the world even as his honed instincts and heightened senses remained open to it.

Always viligant.

Always aware.

The training of a soldier.

The life of an assassin.

The dread of a man hunted.

But something else as well.

Something buried far deeper.

Something for a while . . .

"Sometimes I think you like getting hit."

. . . he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Once he figured it out, he felt foolish and tried to stop.

 _Steve's not here._

 _Not anymore._

 _And even if he was, he's the big guy now._

 _The tough one._

 _"Captain America"._

 _And he doesn't need my protection or help anymore._

It was comfort, knowing little Steve Rogers wasn't always going to be beaten up sometime, somewhere.

At least without an entire battalion of super soldiers . . .

". . . led by Steven Rogers, raced to save the floating city's citizens from certain death . . ."

But he still couldn't break the habit.

No matter how hard he tried.

So eventually . . .

"I had him on the ropes."

. . . he gave up.

And looked anyway.

A rueful, slightly embarrassed smirk cutting through his usually stoic visage.

* * *

 _Even before we were soldiers, Steve was always getting into fights he couldn't win._

 _That was how we met._

 _Some older kid was pushing around another kid during lunch break._

 _Took his seat, stepped on his sandwich, something._

 _And Steve stepped in like he wasn't about to get the crap beaten out of him too._

 _His nose was bloody by the time I jumped out of the crowd and gave the bully a blackeye._

 _After getting one of my own._

 _Steve got into alot of fights after that._

 _He never backed away from a fight._

 _He never backed down from a bully._

 _He was braver his entire life than I ever thought about being because when he was little, he always knew how it was going to end._

 _And he stepped up anyway._

 _I always respected his pluck even if I thought he was crazy half the time._

 _He was my best friend._

* * *

 **I mean, really, how often did Bucky wander down alleys and stuff in the '40s just to see if Steve was somewhere getting his butt whipped? ;)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, brynerose, Sassiebone, caristonia7, and DinahRay for reviewing!**


	8. No Idle Hands

I do not own Captain America anything.

Or a Bucky. It's probably for the best.

Pieces of a Broken Puzzle

No Idle Hands

* * *

Dock worker, fruit picker, construction worker.

James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes had been a hard worker in his first life, a dedicated soldier in his second life, a single minded killing machine in his non-life.

And now, lost and determined to find himself, he was living day to day, struggling to piece himself back together.

Even so, the cell-altering serum Zola had injected him with so many years ago did not completely eradicate the living, breathing human behind the ice blue eyes.

And living, breathing humans, even uber ones, require sustenance.

Shelter.

Clothing helped.

He had committed numerous murders and atrocities during his imprisonment as the Winter Soldier.

But now that he was free, he made his own choices.

Abided by his own law and principal.

And one of those choices was to live as he had been taught so many years ago.

As a good man.

And good men, along with not killing without extreme provovation, also do not steal.

So, in order to provide for his own necessities, Bucky Barnes went back to work.

Under the radar, off the grid.

As one of the faceless, nameless population of immigrant workers.

Immigrant workers.

Almost a dirty word to Americans, so concerned and worried over the influx of hopeful, desperate individuals willing to do any menial task offered to them in exchange for enough money to eat.

To live.

To survive.

Overseas, the term was not quite so abhorrent.

He could procure cash paid employment easily enough if he knew where to look.

How to ask.

And how to keep his head down.

Lately he worked as a handyman of the dingy apartment building he occupied.

Fixing leaks, patching walls, digging rats' nest out of the crawlspaces.

He liked it well enough.

It helped curb his social anxiety to work in semi anonymity, to interact on a small scale with only a few people at a time.

Who were generally relieved to see him, welcomed him into their humble abodes.

". . . scratching in the walls but they spring my traps . . ."

". . . leaking from the upstairs bath . . ."

The old women offered him warm bread from their ovens, flavorful sarmale from their steampots.

Introductions to their unmarried granddaughters.

The little children proffered up half eaten wafers and broken wax crayons.

And Bucky Barnes, former deadly asassin, would smile.

Reach out his gloved metal hand.

Gently take the soggy crackers, the treasured wax colors.

Murmur an appreciation for the food.

And self depreciatively duck graciously away from offers of granddaughters' contact information.

* * *

 _I like helping people, making their lives better._

 _It's much better than killing them._

 _My first job was shoe polish boy in Brooklyn._

 _My mother said I charmed the customers with my smile and they gave me more money._

 _I always gave her my money to put in the crock so we could save enough to have shoes for winter._

* * *

 **I don't really know where this idea came from. But I like the idea. I think I'll carry it into further Bucky tales.**

 **Anyway, thanks to DinahRay, Sassiebone, brynerose, cairistone7, and brigid1318 for your gracious reviews!**


	9. Courage in a Bottle

I do not own Captain America anything.

Or a Bucky. It's probably for the best.

Pieces of a Broken Puzzle

Courage In a Bottle

* * *

Before going off to war, Bucky Barnes enjoyed a social drink now and again.

Champagne with a pretty girl at a dance.

". . . to you, doll. Drink up, they're playing our song . . ."

Post-Zola Sargeant Barnes needed a pull from Dogan's hip flask to chase away the nightmares that haunted his broken sleep.

"Whoa there, son! I said a swig, not a chug!"

And the Winter Soldier only knew intravenous fluids and energy gel packs provided to satiate thirst and hunger for the few hours at a time he was released from cryo to do the bidding of HYDRA.

"Asset prepped and ready for transport."

Present day Bucky Barnes, suspected alcohol wouldn't affect him as much as the average, non-serumed man.

And chose not to find out anyway.

A rage-filled, partial amesiatic man with superstrength, superspeed, and a super left hook didn't need to find out what would happen under the influence of alcohol.

Or anything else other than himself.

So when he needed to fight off the demons of his HYDRA controlled past . . .

"No witnesses."

. . . shut out the hypnotic drone of a bug-eyed imp of a man long dead . . .

"Tell us, Sargeant Barnes, why do you keep fighting when you know deep down inside that resistance is futile?"

. . . unwind after a long day of anxiety and stress . . .

"Excuse me, please, which way to the train station, sorry, we're American tourists and we're lost, can you believe it, I mean . . ."

. . . or even celebrate the small victories in his life . . .

 _Didn't break into a cold sweat when the Portuguese woman behind me said 'comply' in German to her French husband today._

. . . he chose to do them under his own steam.

And without any 'medicinal' help from a bottle.

Of any kind.

Because it was better than finding out what he could be, what he could do.

And nothing, _nothing_ , was worse than not being in control of his own actions.

Doing harm. Doing damage.

And not being able to take it back.

* * *

 _When we were fourteen, me and Steve snuck into a speakeasy._

 _We got really drunk._

 _Our parents were furious._

 _Steve's mom switched him and my dad took the belt to me._

 _We were sore for days and our parents still made us do chores and go to school._

 _I was mad at them at the time._

 _But they were good parents._

 _I miss them._

 _And everybody else._

* * *

 **Anybody else ever get the belt? Whew, still stings!**

 **Anyway, thanks to the loyal readers and reviewers, brigid1318, DinahRay, cairatonia7, and brynerose for your time and words!**


	10. Moms and Monkeys

I do not own Captain America anything.

Or a Bucky. It's probably for the best.

Pieces of a Broken Puzzle

Moms and Monkeys

* * *

 _Mrs. Rogers and my mom had birthdays the same month._

 _One year, Steve and I took them to a movie._

 _We bought sodas and popcorns._

 _They told us we should save our money and not waste it._

 _But they dressed up in their best Sunday dresses and hats._

 _And let us take them to see 'The Wizard of Oz'._

 _My mom worried over how Dorothy was going to keep the ruby red slippers from getting scuffed._

 _Steve's mom argued that the Wizard needed a good, swift brooming to stop his dishonesty._

 _My mom suggested a switch, seeing as how it had worked so well on me when I was seven._

 _They seemed to enjoy it though._

 _They kissed our cheeks and used their lace hankerchefs to wipe off the lipstick._

 _They both said it was their favorite b_ _irthday._

* * *

There was a lot of stuff Bucky Barnes had missed during his imprisonment as HYDRA's number one assassin.

Short, murderous excursions into society's roiling hodgepodge of external stimulus.

Stimulus only vaguely processed by the Winter Soldier.

The evolving sights. Sounds. Smells.

The Winter Soldier was not interested or curious of any of these things.

He was only programmed to complete the current mission.

Much of the world and oddities therein were ignored as unimportant.

When he broke through the conditioning and left Steve unconscious on the muddy banks of the Potomac, the man who didn't know himself was fully assaulted with new and unfamiliar sights and sounds.

Only slightly less than Steve awakening from a seventy year deep freeze.

The world was faster, louder.

More consumed with itself than ever before.

So many things he heard in the air around him that he didn't understand.

So many things he didn't know.

". . . WI-FI signal sucks too much to access Spotify . . ."

" And I said, 'If you don't like my kitty gifs, we can't even talk . . ."

". . . nuke that chimichanga and let's go!"

So many things that didn't make sense.

There were some comforting, familiar naunces.

"Hey, Lou, meet me for a beer?"

". . . want the new Ford . . ."

"I told her not call her flying monkeys, man . . ."

 _Flying monkeys._

 _I understood that reference._

 _So that means they think she's a . . . oh._

So all in all, it was a learning process.

* * *

 **Once the little nugget got plopped into my lap** **, I just had to.**

 **For funsies.**

 **Plus, you know, mom stuff.**

 **And, yes, direct from 'The Avengers'. Because, connections. And reasons.**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318, brynerose, and cairistone7 for reviewing!**


	11. My Pal, Steve

I do not own Captain America anything.

Or a Bucky. It's probably for the best.

Pieces of a Broken Puzzle

My Pal, Steve

* * *

"All you have to do is shine my shoes . . ."

It wasn't that he didn't care.

It wasn't that the guy wasn't his pal.

But so many people overlooked Steve Rogers.

Simply because of his diminutive size.

Overlooked, or worse, treated him in a condescending manner.

And Steve hated that worse than anything.

Even though he unfortunately presented the stature of a boy barely into his teens, he was, in fact, a man.

A grown, intelligent man.

A man who could work.

Stockboy. Grocery clerk. Something.

A man with a sense of duty.

Applying fruitlessly over and over again to enlist in the army.

With nothing to show. And everything to prove.

Stubbornly never backing down from any fight, no matter how outmatched he was.

Proud.

Refusing to take a handout, a dime, or a single helping hand from anybody.

Not even his best and only pal.

That was why Bucky Barnes went out of his way to never give his friend a single inch at all.

". . . maybe take out the trash . . ."

Because everyone else, save for his own mother, always tried to write Steve off.

Ignore him.

Or, worse of all, dare to feel sorry for him.

And that, for such a tiny little dandelion floof of concentrated righteous fury, simply was unacceptable.

Bucky knew that outwardly that he was better than Steve in every possible way.

Men interacted with him in civil tones. With respect and downright common decency.

Women swooned at the very sight of his broad, square shoulders and strong jawline.

But Steve Rogers was stronger, braver, tougher every single day of his life than Bucky ever thought to be.

Bucky was handed the world on a silver platter.

Looks, intelligence, health.

If not flush with coin, at least quite capable of easily making something of himself.

Well rounded family, a mother and father, to teach and guide him into proper adulthood.

While little Steve Rogers grew up without a father.

Lost to the 1st World War, 108 division, mustard gas.

A big strapping, impressive man he never met.

Whose son instead inherited his mother's slight frame.

And steely blue eyes.

That mother who couldn't afford to stay home.

But instead gave her life in service in the TB ward.

Providing comfort to those dying, suffocating slowly under the weight of their own frail chests,, drowning in their own breath.

Eventually in much the same way, leaving her only child, her physically weak son with his good, strong heart, to fend for himself.

". . . get by on my own, Buck."

By his own volition as stubborn . . .

". . . thing is, you don't have to . . ."

. . . and proud as ever.

" . . . with you 'til the end of the line, pal."

And it was all these things in mind that, in the midst of the lingering damage and overwhelming relief at the escape from Zola, a battered, muddied Bucky Barnes sent up the shout . . .

"Let's hear it for Captain America!"

. . . that might have been misconstrued as somewhat off-key in tone.

To any detached, discerning listener.

Because . . .

 _My ass_.

. . . Captain America was a larger than life superhero.

 _'Captain America'._

Someone the newsreels ate up . . .

 _He's a fiction. Made in a lab._

 _. . ._ with gusto . . .

 _Let's give it up for the little guy from Brooklyn who was too stupid to run away from a fight._

. . . that people cheered for . . .

 _The guy I_ told _to stay home._

 _Who let crazy scientists experiment on him when a stiff breeze could snap him in two._

That children playing in the street emulated . . .

 _Let's really hear for my buddy . . ._

. . . without truly seeing.

 _. . . Steve Rogers!_

* * *

 _All Steve ever wanted was to stop bullies._

 _I always told him to let it go, just walk away._

 _Let someone else fight the battles._

 _I'm really glad he didn't._

 _Nobody else would have found me in that factory._

 _I wasn't staying tough until rescue; I was surviving until I died._

 _But he got me out._

 _He might have been bigger, stronger, faster._

 _Captain America._

 _But the second I saw him through my haze of confusion and pain, I recognized that face._

 _My pal._

 _Steve._

* * *

 **The rest of that little Captain America rant I found on Pinterest via Tumblr (thanks, ohbuckyyouresofine) ends with 'Whom I apparently need a backpack leash for'.**

 **Which frankly sent me over the edge of laughter 'til my family stared at me. Poor Bucky, he just wanted to keep the little guy safe, didn't he?**

 **But hopefully the pride shows through.**

 **Lotsa different interpretations of an oddly delivered line by dear old Seb there.**

 **This one is mine. Care to offer yours?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, brynerose, and DinahRay for your reviews!**


	12. Google is My God

I do not own Captain America anything.

Or a Bucky. It's probably for the best.

Pieces of a Broken Puzzle

Google is My God

* * *

The girl had been sitting on the bench oblivious to the cloudy day going on around her, staring at her black rectangle for as long as Bucky had been watching her.

He thought it must be a hypnotizing instrument of some kind.

 _FLASHESFLASHESREPETITIVEFLASHESHYDRACONTROLSTHEMINDWITHTHEFLASHES-_

And he had to restrain the urge to rush up and knock it out of her hands.

Instead, he edged closer.

And saw she was looking at pictures.

Pictures and words like on a TV.

She felt his shadow and glanced at him.

Ghosted a smile only the truly distracted can summon.

And to returned to her mysterious mechanism.

It wasn't the first time Bucky has seen one of them.

Many people seemed to have them.

Different colors. Different sizes.

And they really liked them.

Bucky remembered a time when people strolled the streets, with or without companions.

Heads up.

Conversing with each other.

Smiling, offering congenial nods to perfect strangers.

Looking forward toward where they were going.

Interested. Curious in the world around them.

Now people seemed to walk with their heads down.

Talking into the rectangles.

Or staring at them, repeatedly tapping their thumbs against the smooth surfaces.

And he wondered what could have pulled them all away from living their lives.

To stare at the rectangles.

The girl looked up again, seeming slightly disconcerted at his hovering presence.

And Bucky remembered the manners his mother taught him ever slipping.

He shifted his feet to back away when the girl spoke.

"New Apple iPhone," she said proudly, completely unaware that her words had made absolutely no sense at all to the man who, days before, had pulled his unconscious former best friend from the depths of the Potomac.

She waved it at him and his eyes reflexively followed the screen in its scattered air dance.

"It's awesome," she rambled on, reverting her gaze back to it and giving it a few quick taps to check her Twitter account as she talked. "I'd be lost without it . . ."

 _What? Why does it have that kind of control over you?_

" I mean, _seriously_. Google is my _God_."

 _God?_

And then he wandered away, more mystified than ever.

* * *

 _When I was growing up in Brooklyn, phones were rare._

 _People talked on party lines and everyone could hear you._

 _My mother said she didn't want everyone knowing her business and simply would rather write a letter and my father said there was no one he needed to speak to that badly._

 _Now everyone has a phone. They can talk anywhere, anytime._

 _I wish I could call my mother and father._

 _My sisters._

 _And Steve._

* * *

 **Steve would say 'There's only one God, ma'am, and I'm pretty sure he's not stuck in that phone'.**

 **Ha.**

 **And yes, I'm a phone junkie too. I have to remember to put my phone down in the company of other life forms. And the sky. And my life.**

 **But I'm working on it.**

 **Which is one reason I wrote this.**

 **So thanks to brigid1318 and** **DinahRay for your reviews!**


	13. Plums

I do not own Captain America anything.

Or a Bucky. It's probably for the best.

Pieces of a Broken Puzzle

Plums

* * *

His antegrade memory was fine.

But the past, it was a broken puzzle.

With missing pieces.

Big gaping holes.

With jagged uneven edges.

And confusion.

 _Who am I ?_

So much confusion.

Accompanied by blinding frustration and anger at times.

 _What am I?_

* * *

Memory loss.

It was like standing on a hillside at night.

The storm raging all around, making it hard to think. Impossible to see clearly.

Erratic flashes of lightening illuminating the world, blinding the eyes, confusing the mind.

And Bucky, trying to draw a map of the countryside.

Sketch his thoughts. Navigate his timeline.

But the flashes come without warning, never showing enough to be understood.

A smell here. Taste there.

A sentence.

A song.

A feeling.

But with no anchor to put it in understandable context.

An impossibly frustrating situation.

 _What am I going to do?_

* * *

". . . the merits of the purple fruit. Studies have shown that along with providing the body with needed antioxidants and strengthening bones, plums can also be helpful in guarding against memory loss . . ."

This stopped Bucky in his tracks.

Right next to a newspaper stand where the radio crackled, tinny and distorted.

 _Memory . . . memory . . ._

"In other news, the World Council . . ."

* * *

". . . very good, very delicious! You buy?"

The old woman's enthusiasm was contagious, causing Bucky to almost smile.

Almost.

He picked up five and started to hand them to the old gypsy looking crone.

She chuckled, shaking her head.

Exclaiming in Romanian.

"No, no! You buy three, no more. Buy three, eat three, one a day."

She paused, gesturing with one gnarled hand for him to lean closer.

He did so, feeling slightly anxious as her wrinkled face grew serious.

 _I know who you are_ , she'd say. _They're coming to take you back under their control._

But, to his surprise, she, of course, did not say any such thing.

Instead . . .

"One a day," she relayed sternly. "Or you find yourself on toliet a very long time."

The twinkle in her eye betrayed her amusement with what she had forseen as his potential forthcoming disaster.

A smile finally escaped him, as he ducked away under his ballcap, nodding his head.

He handed her the plums which she placed carefully in a small, reusable bag.

He paid her with a few precious coins and began to turn away.

"One a day. No more," she reiterated again, holding out her right thumb for emphasis. "You come back in three days, then I sell you three more."

He nodded obediently, repeating her instructions.

"One a day."

* * *

 _My parents grew up without indoor plumbing._

 _They reminded me everytime I complained about having to wait on one of my three sisters to get out of the watercloset._

 _Steve and his mother were poorer and didn't have indoor plumbing._

 _I think he enjoyed the privilege of a watercloset when he came to my house._

 _I never much thought about it until I got sick to my stomach._

 _Bathrooms are better now._

 _I am very grateful to have indoor plumbing._

* * *

 **Okay, okay, I'm not _saying_ Bucky had some plum problems. I mean, Steve couldn't get drunk and Bucky is obviously a super soldier too.**

 **But everyone is grateful for indoor plumbing, amiright? ;)**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318, caristonia7, and OftheOcean for your reviews!**


	14. Where in the World is Bucky Barnes?

I do not own Captain America anything.

Or a Bucky. It's probably for the best.

Pieces of a Broken Puzzle

Where in the World is Bucky Barnes?

* * *

He couldn't go just anywhere.

He couldn't just melt away into the shadows anywhere.

He needed to be somewhere his face could be invisible, nondescript to the locals.

A large land area, a densely populated city with plenty of escape routes.

Inexpensive to live in.

And under the radar.

The continental United States was too high profile.

Too expensive.

Too everything.

Seventy years ago, it had been his proud home.

But now it seemed too open, too alien.

Too dangerous.

Its inhabitants too friendly, too eager get involved with others.

He needed a place where he could be left alone, hide.

Alaska was underpopulated and he would surely draw attention to himself as a stranger.

Plus, it was just too cold for long term.

Hawaii was out. No islands. They lacked escape routes.

Canada, too expensive and too documented.

Further North, the Artic Circle, too cold.

And he had no desire to subsist on whale ribs and polar bear heads if he could help it.

To the south, Mexico, Central and South America.

Dark of hair and moderately tanned in the sun, he still didn't fit the demographic profile of general populace.

Asia. Same.

Africa. Same.

And so he looked to Europe.

Paris. Rome. Prague. Milan. Berlin.

Too expensive. Too many tourists.

Budapest.

Narrowly escaping the far reaching hand of the secret organizations that hunted him.

Fighting his way out of Belgrade.

Out of Sofia, Bulgaria.

Considering braving the cold of Krakow.

Instead, saving it as a last resort.

And, four months before Steve Rogers, arrived in Bucharest.

Close sea escape to the east.

The main hub of Europe to the west.

Even older civilizations to the south.

And the mythical Transylvania to the north.

It felt isolated.

Contained.

It felt safe.

If anyplace could feel safe for the hunted man carrying the Winter Soldier deep within the recesses of his mind.

* * *

 _I always thought I would travel._

 _After the war with my wife and kids._

 _Nigara Falls._

 _Mount Rushmore._

 _The Grand Canyon._

 _But always come home to Brooklyn._

 _I can't go home now._

 _Everything I knew is gone._

 _My pop always used say home is where you hang your hat._

 _He wore a fedora. I have ballcap._

 _I guess that'll have to be enough._

* * *

And in the margins of the page, a related but separate scribbled sentence.

 _And who the hell is Carmen Sandiego anyway?_

* * *

 **Catch the reference? ;)**

 **Anyway, Steve Rogers has his list of Trouble Man and Nirvana, yeah?**

 **Thanks to DinahRay, brigid1318, brynerose, and cairistone7 for reviewing! You're so sweet!**


	15. Going on an Adventure

I do not own Captain America anything.

Or a Bucky. It's probably for the best.

Pieces of a Broken Puzzle

Going on an Adventure

* * *

The vendor's setup was on his left as he trudged the cobblestones home everyday from the docks.

Sweat damp. Tired. Smelling of fish.

Wanting nothing more than a shower.

A bite to eat.

And some quiet.

Stillness.

Solitude.

But that was the thing.

That was _all_ there was in the evenings.

Quiet.

Stillness.

Solitude.

Four dull greying walls of peeling plaster.

Him.

His journals.

And his thoughts.

Bucky Barnes did no more than glance at the paper profferings to his left for three evening trudges.

Thinking, _eh, not really my thing. I don't think._

Even though one rather worn item caught his eye, nagged at his memories.

And eventually, he stopped and relinquished his coins.

'In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit . . ."

* * *

 _My mother taught me how to read._

 _School made me._

 _But I never read for fun._

 _I never seemed to have the time._

 _There was always someone to meet. Someplace to go._

 _Something else to do._

 _My sister, Mary, loved to read._

 _We had a very small library, maybe a half dozen paperbacks._

 _There was this one book, a fantasy, she read over and over._

 _I always thought that was kind of silly._

 _Wouldn't it be boring to read the same thing more than once?_

 _She'd be very proud of herself right now, I think._

* * *

'That was the most awkward Wednesday he ever remembered.'

 _I had an awkward Wednesday once. A girl's mom caught me kissing her behind the laundry line._

 _And another Wednesday I beat a guy almost to death out of determination and fear and confusion._

 _He fell and almost drowned._

 _Then I pulled him out of the river and left him in the mud._

 _That was awkward._

* * *

'It was at this point that Bilbo stopped. Going on from there was the bravest thing he ever did. The tremendous things that happened afterward were as nothing compared to it. He fought the real battle in the tunnel, before he ever saw the vast danger that lay in wait.'

 _Huh. Well, that just doesn't apply to me at all. Ahem . . ._

'"Go back?' he thought. 'No good at all. Go sideways? Impossible! Go forward? Only thing to do! On we go!"

'So he got up and trotted along with his little sword held in front of him and one hand feeling the wall, and his heart all of a patter and a pitter.'

* * *

Morning.

Sunshine illuminating the newspapered windows.

Quiet rustling of a previously resting body stretching inside a warm sleeping bag in a still, nearly empty room.

 _I'm here again. Awake._

 _Okay._

 _Well, on we go, Bilbo._

 _Hey, Mary, that rhymed._

* * *

 **'Where there's life, there's hope.'**

 **Parallels, anyone? :)**

 **Plus, you know, it's The Hobbit!**

 **All direct quotes, by the way. Not stealing nothin'.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, Sassiebone, and OftheOcean for your reviews!**


	16. Bang Bang

I do not own Captain America anything.

Or a Bucky.

Pieces of a Broken Puzzle

Bang Bang

* * *

"You're dead!"

"No, I'm not!"

"Yes, you are! I shot you right _there_ and you're supposed to be dead!"

The two little boys bickering in Romanian. The bigger one emphasized how deceased the slightly one was supposed to be by poking him in the chest.

The smaller one responded by fearlessly shoving him back.

 _Get him, Steve._

Their weapons, broken off sticks, lay abandoned at their feet.

"You're not playing fair!"

"You're not _supposed_ to play fair! It's war!"

 _That's the most accurate statement I've ever heard._

"This is stupid, I don't want to play anymore!"

"Fine, I don't either!"

And the war was over.

 _Just like that._

Bucky Barnes smiled.

On the inside.

* * *

The Howling Commandos . . .

 _Crazy name, thanks, Dugan . . ._

. . . had taken up their positions outside the newly found HYDRA compound.

And Captain America was charging right through the fray.

Like he was invincible or something.

Just like he'd always done.

 _Dumbass_.

But that was okay.

Because Bucky Barnes had his back.

Laying flat, sniper rifle braced, he held still.

Led the target.

Compensated for wind.

And pulled the trigger.

Down.

Dead.

Blood in the snow.

And Steve, still alive and safe.

Just like always.

Except sometimes . . .

 _Dammit, Steve, I_ told _you not to salute._

 _Now I gotta find another position._

 _Don't do anything stupid til I get back._

* * *

 _I watched Steve's back when he was little._

 _When he wasn't little anymore, I still watched his back._

 _Because he still did stupid things._

 _And he needed somebody to keep him from getting killed._

 _I killed alot of men trying to bring down HYDRA. And protect Steve._

 _He had ideals._

 _I had a gun._

 _There was a lot of blood in the snow that winter._

* * *

 **Thanks to Sebastian Stan via Tumblr via Pinterest for slamming that dose of reality into my head.**

 **And the joke so I could breathe.**

 **Thanks to cairistone7, brynerose, brigid1318, OftheOcean and DinahRay for reviewing!**


	17. Clothes Make the Man

I do not own Captain America anything.

Or a Bucky. It's probably for the best.

Pieces of a Broken Puzzle

Clothes Make The Man

* * *

Outward appearance affects people's interpretation of who you are.

Guides them to make certain assumptions about you and your character, your personality.

Prewar Bucky Barnes donned suits and ties and dress shoes upon necessity.

Slicked back hair.

Proudly presenting himself as society's poster boy of the acceptable man.

 _Hello, I am exactly who I am expected to be._

 _Competent, intelligent, a gentleman._

 _I am everyman._

 _Nothing out of the ordinary at all._

* * *

The man who went off to war was draped in the uniform of a sargeant.

Complete with pant creases and broad shoulders.

Visored cap smartly tilted and proud upon his head.

 _I am respected. I am authority._

 _I am in service to my country._

 _I will not be moved._

* * *

The man who was dragged from the crumbling, burning compound was disheveled, ragged.

Two steps away from being a man broken upon the rock of HYDRA.

Bruised and battered.

His blood, his organs, his cells, coursing with strange chemicals injected into him by a round little toad of a man with an unassuming Swiss accent and a mind of a genius mad scientist.

He forced himself up right and clung resolutely to his sniper rifle.

Walking next to the man who had saved him, the little guy who wasn't the little guy anymore.

 _I'm alive, I'm alive, we're all alive._

 _We're all alive and free because of Steve._

 _I still don't know what the hell happened to him exactly._

 _But he's here. He's not the little guy anymore._

 _But he's still Steve._

 _So I'm following him._

* * *

The clean-shaven, grim-faced man wrapped in a heavy, belted blue trench coat thereafter was leaner, more solemn.

More hungry and determined and focused.

To prove his worth once more.

To do his part.

To stop the monster that was HYDRA.

And, of course, protect his pal.

Captain America, super soldier.

Who, as Sargent Barnes still reckoned, wasn't _entirely_ bulletproof. Yet.

He smiled from time to time, the light and life reaching not only the curved mouth but the sky blue eyes as well.

Mostly in the company of his leader and friend.

But in the quiet moments, in the dark of night, those same eyes could become shadowed and haunted.

Still fighting the horrors of that forgotten, lost room deep within Shmidt's compound.

 _No more._

 _Not again._

 _They've got to be stopped._

 _And we're going to do it._

 _Whatever it takes._

* * *

The Winter Soldier was swathed in black. Intimidating leather cuirass covering his chest. Straps tight and constricting.

Black mask muzzling his lower face, blackout goggles obscuring his eyes, the windows to the soul.

Unkempt, tangled hair.

Black pants. Heavy boots.

Weapons, hidden and in plain sight.

Always within easy reach, riddling his menacing form.

 _I am not a man. I am not human._

 _I am a wild animal._

 _Dangerous. Deadly. A force to be restrained._

 _Fear me._

 _I coming to destroy you._

 _And I will not stop_.

Powerful metal arm on display for all to see.

Red star of his makers, his handlers.

Their tag of possession.

 _This is our animal._

 _We made him._

 _He belongs to us._

 _He is our property._

 _And he is going to kill you._

* * *

The man with the plums had been all these men within his long, century spanning lifetime.

And now he something else.

Unassuming hoodies on jackets and soft cotton shirts.

Jeans. Baseball hats.

Comfortable, well cushioned sneakers, one of his favorite marvels of the modern age.

 _Who am I? Nobody of interest._

 _Just another nameless, forgettable face in the crowd._

 _I'll talk with you if the necessity arises, be nice._

 _But do me a favor, don't look too close._

 _I don't want you to see me._

 _I don't want to be found._

He looked young but his eyes were old.

Ancient.

Closed off to the world .

And yet, still kind.

Capable of mirth.

Secretly yearning for hope.

And redemption.

* * *

 _My name is James Buchanan Barnes._

 _I'd rather be called Bucky._

 _I know a little of who I was, I'm remembering more._

 _I know what I can be._

 _But I don't know who I am now._

 _I do know what I want._

 _I want peace._

 _But I don't think I'll ever get it._

* * *

 **Okay, this ends another foray into the world and mind of MCU's Bucky Barnes.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, brynerose, and cairistone7 for your reviews.**

 **Thanks also to the silent readers as well.**

 **I hope you enjoyed. Thank you for reading. :)**


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